Still Falls the Rain
by kangeiko
Summary: A Spike-POV story set after "The Gift" and dealing with the direct aftermath of the battle. How are the victorious Scoobies treated by the rest of the world without the Slayer around?


STILL FALLS THE RAIN  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, Joss does.  
SUMMARY: Randomness by someone who's read the spoilers  
for "The Gift" but hasn't seen it yet. Spike-thoughts  
post-"The Gift".  
PAIRINGS: B/S, A/S.  
RATING: PG-13. Darkfic.  
ARCHIVE: Not without permission.  
FEEDBACK: Love it, thanks - vhayrabediany...

INSPIRED BY:  
Still falls the Rain --  
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss --  
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails  
Upon the Cross.

(Edith Sitwell) 1887-1964  
"The Raids 1940" - "Still Falls the Rain"

They crucified me.

That's what you wanted to hear, wasn't it? You don't  
want to know about her, or about what we did, or  
about what we stopped. You want to know about  
afterwards. About what happened when those we  
protected caught up with us.

Willow they burned. Or, tried to. Her and Tara got  
away, I think. I haven't seen them since, so they  
either hid real well or... or they didn't. Either way,  
there's going to be nothing for a very long while.

I don't know what happened to the others. Angelus  
found me and said that... he said that Giles was back  
in England, which I suppose is good news. He said that  
Dawnie had found her way to L.A. and that she was with  
Cordelia until I healed. Which, incidentally, I had to  
do underground.

Oh, that wasn't fun. Do you know how much I hate being  
buried? How I truly loathe it? The first time I was  
dead, and waking up underneath six feet of earth...  
frightening. I could feel the grass roots above me,  
and that scared me more than anything else. Made me  
think I wasn't getting out. Made me think this was it.

The second time Angel was right there, burying me  
again. Covering me in earth. Heaping it over me,  
without even a coffin. He barely paused to tear his  
arm open so at least I could drink a little. It wasn't  
safe on the surface for me, he said. Not for a long  
while.

He said the world had gone mad.

Like I hadn't figured that out when the mob appeared.

Oh, Glory did her job well. No Hell materialised, but  
the mobs scared by all those demons and bright lights  
went insane. The 'forgetfulness' spell or whatever  
that had worked so well for Sunnyhell was gone with  
one really big fireworks display. No more denial. Mob  
rule was here to stay, and guess who they headed for?  
That's right, the group o' mooks still hanging around  
a dead body right in the middle of the big flashing  
lights.

I don't know what they did to Buffy's body. I don't  
want to know. I've done some pretty horrible things  
in my time, but usually I stop after the person's  
dead. Not much fun if they're not screaming or  
whimpering or whatever, you know?

Not this. This was... unholy.

The last thing I saw right before they brought out a  
big fuck-off cross was them, hoisting up her body  
for... something. I don't know what it was. I don't  
want to know.

I can't even remember the crucifixion, isn't that  
weird? You'd think I would. I remember everything that  
wanker Angelus did to me over a hundred years ago, but  
I don't remember that. I don't remember them driving  
stakes through my hands and my feet, impaling me on a  
cross. I don't remember beginning to burn. I don't  
remember screaming.

I don't remember who tore me down.

My hands are almost healed now. I still can't walk -  
the feet have some way to go. Can't really get around  
'cause I can't even use a bloody wheelchair anymore,  
but I don't need to here. I get blood and I get telly  
and I get to stare at nothingness for hours. Some  
might even call it fun.

I think I might get scars. Small circular things on my  
hands and my feet to match the one in my side. Missed  
the heart by inches, damn whoever decided that. Not  
that someone did. I'm not entirely clear on how this  
all works. I'm not entirely clear on why I'm alive.  
Alive, undead, you know what I mean.

Angel keeps promising that he'll bring Dawn to see me  
soon. He keeps promising that the blood he gives me is  
human. I can tell on both accounts that he's lying.  
Pig's blood is pig's blood - scraps and crumbs from  
the meal. I won't heal from it. But he can't bring me  
human blood. He can't bring me the blood of the humans  
who did this. And he knows I'll go after them. That's  
why I haven't seen Dawn yet. She's already seen  
enough.

Angelus says she saw them impale me. He says she tried  
to get to me and was almost crushed to death. He says  
he found her on his doorstep, huddled against the  
doorframe, crying. He says she'd been armed with a  
knife.

I don't want to know where she found the knife from. I  
don't want to know why the knife had blood on it. I  
don't want to know anything. I don't want to see her.

I don't want her to see me.

See me as I am - see me be helpless again. See me lie  
in bed, or a chair, or whatever they choose to put me  
in, moving me ever so carefully. See the scar on  
Angel's arm from the constant infusions. See the dirt  
in my clothes from the earth. See me fight them off  
whenever they try to strip me. I'm not leaving these  
clothes behind. I'm not leaving this blood behind.  
Some of their blood is on me, somewhere. Dawnie's,  
and Buffy's. Some mixed with mine when they tore me  
open in so many places. I'm not letting that go. I  
can't even remember it - I can't remember anything.  
The rest are gone, probably dead. I don't know that  
either. I know so little, and I can't let someone else  
remember my life for me. I can't let someone else  
remember her death for me. I owe her that much.

My head has a crown on it from the nails hammered in.  
My hands have the marks of Christ. I died on a cross  
too; and you wonder why I'm crazy?

Come on, Buffy. Come on, pet. Wake up and tell me I'm  
crazy. Tell me I dreamed it all. My dreams have been  
so strange lately that I would probably believe you. I  
dream of many things... churches and bells and oranges  
and lemons... how does that go again? My mum used to  
sing that for me when I was little... I don't remember  
that very well either. I used to remember the church  
bells of my dreams. I need to remember Dawn. I need to  
remember... I forget who. Hmmm. Can't have been that  
important.

I remember it rained, after. Washed me clean, more or  
less. It all drained into the ground... still  
something in me, on me, around me, though. It has to  
be. Despite the rain. Who trusts it, anyway? I prayed,  
I really did. I prayed, God, and you didn't answer.  
Was that because we killed you? Was Glory really it?  
Is that it? Are we done? We killed all the evil, and  
God was one of those and she's gone and there's  
nothing left to stop anyone...

The mobs rule Sunnydale. General quarantine, the telly  
says. I'm not surprised. Something horrible happened  
there. I'll remember it soon. I'll need to get out of  
these clothes eventually; I'll have to ask someone to  
write it all down for me. I'd hate to forget.

My feet hurt. I don't remember why, exactly, but I'm  
sure it'll come back to me. I've lost someone, I know  
that. I've lost a great many someone's... I'll need to  
find at least one of them. Dawn. I have to find  
dawn... That helps. See, I remember. And as for  
looking - easy. My feet and hands will heal. And at  
least I have a name to start with. At least I have  
something to look for.

Oh, look.

It's raining.

fin


End file.
